


The Bridge of Dreams

by evilgiraff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilgiraff/pseuds/evilgiraff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bedtime story. All fluff, no danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bridge of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The wonderful world of Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling and whoever else she said could have it. This little tale is all mine, though.
> 
> I wrote this as a wedding present for saras_girl and her wife, and originally posted it at their gift community on LJ, wedding_eels. Deepest congratulations and the very best of best wishes to them both! Regarding this little fic, I have a few words. As ever, deepest thanks go to my wonderful beta, omi_ohmy. Also, despite my propensity for killing off characters, I am a hopeless romantic. I owe the existence of this story to WB Yeats, for one of my favourite poems:
> 
> **He wishes for the cloths of heaven**
> 
> _Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,  
>  Enwrought with golden and silver light,  
> The blue and the dim and the dark cloths  
> Of night and light and the half-light,  
> I would spread the cloths under your feet:  
> But I, being poor, have only my dreams;  
> I have spread my dreams under your feet;  
> Tread softly because you tread on my dreams._

Hermione is in something of a flap when Harry and Draco knock at the door. She ushers them inside with a grateful look on her face, then starts trying to pull on her shoes and struggle into her coat at the same time.

“Everything alright, 'Mione?” Harry grins at her.

“I don't know where the time's gone, Harry, honestly, we've barely finished dinner and we were meaning to get them both in bed before you arrived, but, well, as you see...” She gestures vaguely at the living room, where both Rose and Hugo are still quite clearly awake.

“Don't worry about it, they'll be asleep at least five minutes before you get home, I promise,” Harry says with a mischievous smile. He's never been able to resist teasing Hermione, even though experience tells him it's not the best idea when she's already flustered.

This time she merely glares at him half-heartedly, then bellows up the stairs for Ron to get a move on. Ron is, as usual, relaxed, the antithesis to his panicking wife, sauntering down the stairs and cheerily greeting Harry and Draco.

There's a flurry of activity as apologies for leaving before getting the bath-and-bed routine under way are offered and brushed aside, and the children exchange goodnight kisses with their parents. The house seems suddenly quiet as Draco shuts the front door, and for a brief moment silence falls as the two children and two adults look at each other, mentally adjusting to the new hierarchy.

“Right,” says Harry, rubbing his hands together. “Bathtime, I think.” He shepherds Hugo up the stairs as Rose dashes ahead with Draco. By the time he's cajoled the small boy to the bathroom, Draco already has the water running and is debating the merits of the various bubbles available. This being a Weasley house, there are several different bottles – most with _Wizard Wheezes_ labelling – to choose from. As soon as Hugo realises what's going on, his protestations that he's already mostly clean already are forgotten in favour of making a bid for his choice of bubble bath to be selected ahead of Rose's.

Hermione occasionally despairs of her daughter, who is a staunch proponent of pink-and-fluffy girliness that is completely at odds with her mother's desire to avoid gender stereotypes. Fortunately, Rose's parentage is evident in a pragmatic sense of acceptance that is reminiscent of Ron. It is this customary acquiescence that leads to Hugo's choice of bubbles ( _Animal Bath Fun!_ ) being selected, but in recognition of her sacrifice, Draco charms the bubbles into a headache-inducing shade of pink that has both children impressed.

“This is insane,” Harry mutters, as he pops an elephant-shaped bubble with a too-dry finger.

“It's not the bubbles that are insane,” Draco says mildly. “It's the rest of it.” He wiggles his fingers under the water and they watch the motley collection of tiny pink animals gallop across the bottom of the bath, taking refuge behind Rose.  
“They're not even sea creatures. George has lost his mind.”

“Some of them are,” Harry says, pointing out a grumpy-looking two-inch octopus that is currently skulking under Hugo's knee. He prods it, fascinated, until it reluctantly makes a move toward the tap end of the bath and curls up around the plug chain.

Shaking his head, Draco gets back to the matter in hand, ensuring the two children are clean before hauling them out of the water and wrapping them in giant towels. As Harry rubs Hugo's hair until it's sticking up in all directions, he spots the octopus making a bid for freedom, climbing up the plug chain one tentacle at a time.

It takes another ten minutes to get both children dry and into their pyjamas, and by the time they're in bed Rose has a request.

“Will you tell us a story, Uncle Draco?”

Draco's eyes widen and he glances over at Harry, unsure. “Are you sure you don't want a story from Harry?”

Rose looks stern, her eyes telling him he isn't getting out of it that easily. “Okay, I'll tell you a story,” he says, wandering over to the small bookcase. “What sort of story do you want?”

“A princess story!” says Rose, and “an adventure story!” exclaims Hugo.

Rose frowns briefly at her brother, before incorporating his idea, and delivering the kicker. “A _true_ adventure princess story, Uncle Draco. Not one from a book, a real one.” She folds her arms and settles back into her pillow, a triumphant expression on her face.

Draco scrubs a hand over his face and sends a pleading look in Harry's direction, only to realise Harry has seized the moment while they've all been distracted to make good his escape. Soft bustling noises drift in from the bathroom, as Harry tidies away damp towels and deals with errant bubble animals, all of which is infinitely preferable to making up a story – a true adventure princess story – on the spur of the moment.

“Traitor,” Draco mutters, before resigning himself to his fate. “All right,” he says, brightly. “I've got a true adventure story.”

Hugo nods eagerly, but Rose is having none of it. “A _princess_ story, Uncle Draco!”

“How about a prince story?” Draco asks. “I don't know many princess stories, not ones that are true adventure ones as well.”

Rose's eyes narrow in a manner alarmingly reminiscent of Hermione. “Is he a _handsome_ prince?”

“Of course. The handsomest prince that there ever was.”

“Okay then. Tell that story.” Rose waves a hand imperiously and relaxes back on to her pillow.

Draco settles down on the floor, leans back against Hugo's bed, and clears his throat. “Once upon a time–”

“Is this a true story, Uncle Draco?” Rose interrupts, her forehead wrinkling in suspicion.

“Of course,” he replies. “But if you don't want to hear it, we can always get out a book.” The flicker of hope swiftly goes out as Rose shakes her head, lips pressed firmly together.

“Okay then,” Draco resumes. “Once upon a time–”

**:::::**

Once upon a time, there was a handsome prince. He lived in a big castle on top of a hill, and if he stood at the window of the highest room in the tallest tower, everything he could see belonged to him. The fields, the trees, and the houses were all his. But despite all of his wealth, the prince was sad. He had no real friends, you see, because there were no other princes – or princesses – who lived nearby, so he had no-one to talk to.

He tried to talk to the servants, but it just made them uncomfortable, and even though he could have ordered them to talk, it wouldn't have been the same. So the prince spent a lot of time on his own, in his big empty castle, getting lonelier and lonelier.

Then one day, he decided to go for a walk. He walked out of the castle gates, across the drawbridge over the moat, and down the hill towards the village. When he got to the village, he wandered through, saying good morning to everyone he saw, but they knew he was the prince, so they didn't want to talk to him for long. But, it made him feel a bit less lonely, just to have some other people to talk to, even if just for a little while, so he started to walk into the village every day. He would have his breakfast, go into the village, say hello to the people he saw, and walk back again. After a little while, he found that the villagers started to speak to him first, and maybe even have a bit more to say. He still wasn't friends with anyone, but it made him happier.

Then one day, he walked through the village, but when he got to the point he usually turned round to go back to his castle, he thought he'd carry on walking and see what else there was to see. It was a nice sunny day, and being a prince he had no work to do, so he had plenty of time. He followed the path with fields on both sides, until he got to a bend in the path and a small cottage came into view.

Outside this house, chopping up logs, there was a man who the prince had never seen before – maybe he'd just moved to the village, or maybe the prince had just been unlucky. This new man was friendly, anyway, happily saying good morning, and the prince talked to him for a little while before he returned home. All the way back to his castle, the prince couldn't stop thinking about the woodcutter, how he had made the prince feel welcome, and how handsome he was. Of course, he wasn't as handsome as the handsome prince, but then the prince was very handsome indeed.

The prince returned to the cottage to say hello to the woodcutter most days after that. Sometimes he wouldn't be there, and the prince would be sad, but more often he'd be there, outside in the sunshine, waving hello and smiling at the prince.

One day, when the prince arrived, there was a sprite sitting nearby, and talking to the woodcutter. The sprite was all the colours of autumn, red and brown and orange and golden, and he didn't like the prince. The prince tried to carry on talking to the woodcutter like he normally would, but the russet sprite–

**:::::**

“Uncle Draco, what's russet?” Rose interrupts.

“It means a sort of red-brown colour,” Draco says. “Like your hair.” He leans forward and pokes a finger into one of Rose's ringlets. Rose giggles as Draco grins at her while resuming his place leaning against Hugo's bed.

“Not like yours, then?” Hugo asks, combing his own fingers through Draco's hair.

“No,” Draco agrees. “Mine is much more boring.”

With the soothing feeling of Hugo continuing to stroke his hair, Draco resumes the story.

**:::::**

The russet sprite made things awkward, and the woodcutter was too quiet. Eventually, the prince left, and walked home feeling lonelier than ever, that the one person who was the closest thing he had to a friend would not talk to him if the sprite was there.

Several days passed, and each time the prince visited the woodcutter, the sprite was there. They would say hello to each other, but not much more. After a few days like this, the handsome prince decided he wouldn't go to see the woodcutter at all. Instead, he walked out into the countryside, and found a beautiful old oak tree. He sat down on the ground under the tree, leaned back against the bark, and closed his eyes.

As he listened to the wind gently rustling the leaves, and the dappled sunlight warmed his face, the handsome prince  
fell asleep. He slept all morning and all afternoon, and when he woke up it was dark, and there were voices nearby. The handsome prince was embarrassed that he'd been sleeping and the villagers might have seen him. So he kept very still and very quiet, and listened to the voices.

It didn't take long before he realised that he could hear the woodcutter and the russet sprite. Fortunately for the handsome prince, it didn't take long before the russet sprite went away, but as he did, he gave the woodcutter a magic potion. Now, the prince knew a lot about potions, and he quickly got to his feet, worried that this potion might not be a good thing for the woodcutter. He ran around the tree, and as the woodcutter came into view, the prince saw him take the cork out of a small bottle and drink the potion. The instant he did, the woodcutter fell to the ground in an enchanted sleep.

The prince wasn't sure what to do. He recognised the potion bottle – it was one he'd seen before – but he knew he and the woodcutter hadn't been great friends lately so his help might not be welcome.

**:::::**

“He has to help!” Hugo's voice is high-pitched and distressed.

Draco pats Hugo's leg under the covers reassuringly, gives him a quick smile, and continues with the story.

**:::::**

But, the prince was the only person there, so he had to help, really, as otherwise he'd be leaving the woodcutter all on his own. So he picked up the woodcutter, with an arm under his knees and another arm around his ribs, and looked at his sleeping face during the long walk back to the woodcutter's cottage.

_As Ron took a pinch of Floo powder, his eyes suddenly lit up and he rummaged in a pocket. “Nearly forgot, mate,” he said, throwing a small bottle to Harry. “Mum swears by this stuff, it'll have you out like a light. See you next time.”_

_As Ron disappeared into the green flames, Harry waved, then drank the potion down in one smooth gulp. He wobbled a little on the tall bar stool, then crumpled backwards, Draco's sudden dive forward and awkward grabbing just barely saving him from hitting the floor._

_“Dammit, Potter,” muttered Draco. “Everyone knows you don't take insomnia potions when you've been drinking.”_

The handsome prince laid the woodcutter down on his bed, and then started to close the curtains. The prince knew he didn't have much time, so he sat on the floor, closed his eyes, and focussed all of his magic on following the woodcutter wherever the potion had taken him. When he opened his eyes, the prince was surrounded by a grey mist, and could hardly see more than a couple of feet in front of him. He thought he could see a little bit of light shining, though, so he set off towards it, hoping that it would lead him to the woodcutter.

As he walked, the mist slowly thinned, until he could see that was on a tiny island, with sheer cliffs. If he peered over the edge all he could see was a long, long drop into mist that hid just how high up he was.

In the centre of the island, there was the woodcutter, looking lost and frightened. When he saw the prince, he smiled and was clearly pleased to see him. The woodcutter told the prince that he'd been told that to get back home they had to build a bridge from the island back to the mainland. The only problem was, what were they going to build it with?

The prince smiled at him, as he knew what to do. The prince waved his hand in the air, wiggling his fingers gently until he had managed to pull a dream out of the air, and it fell into his hands like a soft, silken rope. The dream-rope was all the colours you can imagine; soft greens and sparkling silvers, rich browns and bright reds. The colours blended and wove around each other until you couldn't tell where one ended and the next began.

But this one dream was not long enough or strong enough to reach across the gap. The prince and the woodcutter spent a long time collecting more and more dreams, carefully weaving and knotting them together until they had a glorious rope bridge made from all their dreams, soft and heavy in their hands. They carried it to the very edge of the cliff, and tied one end tightly to a large rock.

Of course they had no way to fasten the other end, but the woodcutter trusted that it would be alright, so he and the prince lifted their rope bridge and together they threw it out across the gap. As soon as the far end of the bridge reached the other side, it caught and held. The whole bridge seemed to shake, then settle until it looked almost solid, though it still shimmered in the strange light, a thousand colours that changed as they looked at it.

**:::::**

“Ohhh,” says Rose, her eyes wide. “It sounds beautiful.”

“It's made of dreams, Rose,” replies Hugo, witheringly. “Of course it's beautiful.”

“It was beautiful,” says Draco, heading off Rose's indignant retort. “It looked like the sky on a summer evening, like a peacock's tail feathers, like a spider web after rain.”

**:::::**

But when the woodcutter tried to cross, the bridge shivered and shook, throwing him back. The same thing happened when the prince tried to cross. Over and over they tried, and over and over they were thrown back.

After they'd been thrown back a hundred times each, the prince was ready to give up, but the woodcutter was brave and stubborn. He wanted to try one more time, but this time he held out his hand to the prince and said they should cross together. Holding hands tightly, they stepped forward on to the bridge, and the bridge held still. As they took another step, the dreams they were standing on whispered in their minds, and they both walked in wonderment, for all of the prince's dreams were of the woodcutter, and the woodcutter's were of the prince. They walked through their dreams, as colours swept around them and their dreams melded together and became one.

When they'd crossed over to the other side, the prince and the woodcutter walked back to the village, hand in hand, and they lived happily ever after, each knowing that the other loved him.

**:::::**

“And that's the end,” says Draco.

Rose, struggling to keep her eyes open, is not impressed. “But Uncle Draco, there's supposed to be a wedding at the end of the story,” she states. “They always get married and live happily ever after. Why aren't they married?”

Draco closes his eyes, letting Hugo's fingers still gently combing through his hair soothe him. “I don't know, sweetheart.”

“Perhaps the woodcutter wanted to get married, but he didn't know how to ask the prince.” Harry's voice breaks the silence, and Draco glances up, startled, to where Harry stands in the doorway, a strange look on his face.

“Is that right?” Draco's voice shakes slightly, and his eyes are big and bright in the dimly-lit room. “Well then, Rose, maybe they did get married in the end. Will that do?”

She grumbles an unconvinced acceptance, and Draco heaves himself off the floor, sliding the almost-sleeping Hugo's hand out of his hair and on to the pillow. Draco tucks Rose in, kissing her goodnight before turning to face the doorway where Harry still stands.

When the children's bedroom door is closed, it's eerily quiet in the corridor, with only the ticking of the clock and the thudding of his heart audible to Draco.

“Was that a proposal?” he asks. He can't quite look Harry in the eye. “Because I think the prince was probably having similar thoughts.”

Draco glances up then, and finds himself confronted by the biggest, most open smile he's ever seen. He doesn't know which of them moves forward first, but they're somehow in each other's arms and kissing, kissing like they don't know how to stop.


End file.
